


Kiss me, try to fix it

by greypineapple



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ouch, Self-Indulgent, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greypineapple/pseuds/greypineapple
Summary: Mickey sometimes just needs to escape. Ian understands how that feels.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 1
Kudos: 48





	Kiss me, try to fix it

Maybe it was the sound of bottle clinking, their half-empty containers almost cracking under rough hands. Or it was the bass in the music mixed with the raised voices. 

Perhaps it was Mandy, yelling at their dad, being yelled at back. His voice hit Mickey hard even from a distance, slurred harsh syllables, it almost felt like he’d been hit instead. He flinched from instinct, wondering how Mandy managed to speak back so often. She paid the price in dark bruises. Mickey knew how to avoid that, the small smiles and quiet facades. His dad never noticed the frustration, the anger in Mickey’s eyes. Mickey took that outside, to the jobs he gave them. Where Mickey could hit and pretend not to let it affect him.

The voices got louder. Iggy got involved, a slap resounded throughout the house. The surge of emotion raised in Mickey like vomit, always trying to rise. He ignored it harder. Closing his eyes, he pushed his nails into his palm, feeling the sting throughout his body. 

He wished he had some beer, but he didn’t want to leave his bedroom. His bed shook with the force of anger from outside. 

His thoughts couldn’t distract him from the voices, always the voices, “you’re a little slut Mandy-” another hit. Mickey felt it like it was his own face, his own body. He always did. 

He thought of Ian. His sharp eyes, soft lips. His hands, calloused and warm. The images jumbled in his head, the beautiful memories twisting. He saw Ian, bloody under Mickey’s own hands. He saw Ian, begging, crying, giving up. 

It was always the same. His head was too messed up for them. His fucked up ideas of loyalty, truth and family. They were imprinted on him. The alcohol left an impact, the neglect, the abuse. He saw it in his sister like his own skin, the boys she loved never stayed either. It was a disease, from cradle to tomb. Passed from Terry straight directly like a hit of heroin.

Mickey heard a bottle smash, Mandy screamed. He got up, hands clenched, nails scraping the skin. He fumbled, looking at his baseball bat. Considering. He could release the anger, finally. On the right people. The thought of it physically hurt, like he’d been coded against it. His hands felt the handle of the bat, feeling it. 

The anger came, but it came for him. The baseball bat was flung to the floor, Mickey yelled as his fist hit the wall instead. It smashed through the drywall, the cracking cheap substance splitting his hand in turn. 

The thoughts poured through his head, pounding and aching. He had to get out of there, there was nothing to be done. There was no standing up to Terry. Mandy knew it, and so did he. 

Mickey left his room in slow motion, the dry carpet crunching under his feet. The smell of alcohol reminded him of every ugly thing in the world. The scene outside his room was familiar. The raised hand, the beer bottles. Mandy was not crying, her face was red in anger and pain. Iggy had a strange grimace on his face, like he was confused. He was always confused. Mickey didn’t miss the beer bottle in his hand too. He couldn’t blame him for attempting to cope, god knows Mickey tried that too. He tried everything. 

His dad stood in the center of it all, his plaid torn and dirty. Mickey avoided his eyes, trying to not let his anger show again. He knew the punishments, even drunk Terry was much larger. Though Mickey knew it didn’t matter, even if Mickey was 6’3 he wouldn’t fight back. 

“Where are you going, fag?” The alcohol slipped through, a familiar tilt to his voice.

Mickey didn’t let his mask crack, bringing forward a cocky grin, “I can’t crank one out in all this noise, what am I ‘possed to do?” 

Terry grunted. Mandy’s eyes watered. Mickey looked away. 

He turned towards the door, opening the door. The music covered the thump of the door and the whine of the hinges. Mickey walked into the light of the outside, the world pretending as though this was fine. It was this strange sunlight, glinting onto his childhood home, which broke him. He spent too long looking at the cracked paint of the front door.

Mickey laughed into the open air, remembering the absence of happiness in that house. The fights, the innocence turned into hatred. He wondered if he was ever a child, he certainly didn’t remember it. He was always a walking caricature of his father, trying his best to find approval in those cold eyes. He never saw it, not when he was 6 and not now. He never would. 

He felt the weight of the unfairness of the world on his shoulders like always, the southside of Chicago carried it better than most. No tears escaped, he didn’t remember the last time he cried.

His feet took him away, as far as he could go. He wasn’t sure where he ended up until his eyes met the ugly light blue of the Gallagher house. He scoffed. Loitering around their yard with frustration in his eyes. 

If he knocked, he was a pussy. He can’t handle his own family? He can’t handle his own head? Bullshit. He was Mickey Milkovich. 

He turned away. His feet scraping on the concrete, slowing moving away from the porch steps. 

“Mickey?” 

It wasn’t Ian, but a female voice. Shame burned through him, he quickly thought of some excuse. He wasn’t prepared for Fiona, he knew she hated him. Hated the ways he could corrupt her brother, the ways he was hurting him. Mickey couldn’t fault her for it. 

She was standing with one foot out the door, a coat on, heading out. “Are you looking for I-” she stopped, her eyes met his. He wasn’t prepared for her eyes searching his. God, he must look a mess if Fiona Gallagher can read him. He could read her too, the trauma on her like a second skin. The absence left a mark on her. 

“Wait here, I’ll get him.” She nodded in a comforting way, her matronly instincts reaching forward. Mickey nodded back. Sheltering his eyes with his hand, pretending the sun was bothering him. 

Mickey wasn’t sure what he wanted here. He thought about leaving but gave up each time. 

Ian came out, pulling on a light green shirt with one arm. Hair too short, smile crooked, arms scarred. He looked divine. 

Fiona walked past them quickly, leaving with a quick touch on Ian’s arm. Ian walked out to Mickey like one approaches a wild animal. He was cornered, they both knew it. 

“Hey-” Mickey’s voice cracked, “shit, sorry. Up for a walk?” Mickey rubbed his lips anxiously, watching Ian’s sparkling green eyes. 

“For sure.” Ian looked young, too young. Often Mickey wondered if he was really so close to Mickey’s own age. It never felt like Mickey was his age, and he never looked it either. 

They walked in silence. It was cold, fall swept around them. Ian shivered in his thin green shirt. It didn’t seem like Ian wanted to break the silence.  
Somehow they ended up by the railway tracks. The dry leaves laid on the ground, dying and fleeting. 

Ian stopped, leaning on a post. He tried to meet Mickey’s eyes. Mickey didn’t lookup.

“Hey,” Ian stepped closer, “Is everything okay?”

Mickey looked up at that, laughing harshly. He couldn’t stop. It came out of him in waves, hitting the shore and cracking like thunder. He thought about his life, the neverending hits he’s taken. He thought about Ian’s life, the addiction and neglect. They were not so different, but it was a wide gap nonetheless. He never had a Fiona, a Lip. He had responsibilities he could never meet, guns in his hands at 3. Bruises he never learnt to cover up, because no one asked. A sister he could never help, brothers he never understood. 

Ian smiled as Mickey’s laughter slowed, “sorry, probably not an appropriate question.” 

“You fucking think?” 

Ian cleared his throat, “What can I do?”

Rubbing his face, Mickey said, “I wish I had a damn beer.”

Memories flashed on Ian’s face, always so easy to read, “No you don’t.” 

Silence. Mickey thought about it. The bitter taste, always so hard to push down. The shaking hands, slow mind. His dad’s fucking breath.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, you’re right.”

Tentatively, Ian reached out. He touched the sleeve of Mickey’s light jacket. Pulling him forward, already Ian was taller than him. His red hair reflected the sunlight. 

Mickey fell into him. It was so hard to resist. They had never done this. There was no comfort in this, just two boys struggling. Two broken boys trying to find some shelter. It was something Mickey never knew, comfort. Its strange embrace felt like a damn breaking. Eyes watering, Mickey blinked rapidly to keep his emotions back. 

His mask broken, Mickey allowed it for a few seconds longer. He pulled away. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve. 

Ian allowed it for a minute, allowing him to pull himself back together. Mickey looked around for an excuse to leave, uncomfortable with his comfort. Unsure why he came to him in the first place.

Then suddenly, lips touched his. Mickey melted into the kiss like a promise. But the surrounding caught up to him, forbidden words flinging around his head. He jumped back, “fuck!” 

He pushed Ian away, glaring. He yelled into the abyss of their surroundings, the sound echoed around them. 

“I just can’t. It’s too hard, you don’t understand. I- I just thought somehow you could give me something I needed. But I don’t know what that is.” He couldn’t put it into words, the aching need for approval, the hatred that rose inside of himself. It was never directed at his dad, but himself. 

Ian looked away, hurt, “yeah I know. You came to me. I’m just trying to help.” 

Mickey nodded. I’m sorry, he thought, you did help. He didn’t say anything else. 

He left Ian there, stranded in the cold. He didn’t know how to thank him. How to explain. He went back home if he could call it that. He spent the walk thinking about what he would see this time. Mickey knew he never had a real family, but this is all he'd ever had. He didn’t know how to choose a different one, how to escape. 

“I’m sorry Ian,” he whispered into the cold. But this was all he knew. Unable to heal each other, suffering in the presence of others. Hurting and being hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> this was very self-indulgent due to some personal connections I feel with both Ian and Mickey. written very quick. there are so many examples of Mickey comforting Ian, I just used an uno reverse card


End file.
